Recompense
by TheDoctor36
Summary: A tale of Peter Pan and how things came to be. Based on the original novel and Brom's 'Child Thief'. This story is going to have a higher rating simply because it's rather dark so far. The first few chapters are just establishing the world as it is, then the main story will kick in.
1. Recompense Chapter One

**Recompense**

* * *

_Disclaimer: _I do not own the rights to Peter Pan or any materials pertaining to J.M. Barrie's story.

_Introduction: _Like almost every fan fiction author, I've created the world for this story with a few twists. Rather than subjecting all of us to a long and tedious recitation of these changes, we will explore them all along the way. Keep an open mind, and enjoy.

_Peter: Age Three_

Peter sat in his room, playing. He wasn't playing in any ordinary fashion, either. Today, he had managed to smuggle a stick into his room. It wasn't a large stick, but it worked perfectly as an oar. Yes, an oar, to paddle his canoe around the large lily pads in this river. Peter worked his way around, pushing himself with his prized oar, imagining that the large stained spots on the dirty carpet were actually lily pads. Peter soon imagined himself to be escaping from the Indian tribe from which he had just stolen this canoe.

He had been playing for what seemed to be mere seconds when he heard the heavy front door slam. A deep male voice began speaking loudly, and Peter quickly stood up. He had already begun to learn that when the man came around, he needed to be alert. Soon, the man burst into the room Peter was playing in. He stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on it and allowing his matted hair to conceal his face, which Peter knew without looking, would feature facial scruff and bloodshot eyes. Peter could only stand and stare at the man, who finally lifted his head and stared back. Then his eyes shifted to the stick, lying forgotten on the filthy floor. He let out a bellow of rage and stooped to grab it, nearly falling down in the process.

The man shook the stick at Peter. "What's this, then? I work all the time to pay for a house for you and your mother, and this is how you repay me? By bringing weeds in?" Peter's mom came to the door and started determinedly into the room, but the man was already in a rage. "Let's see how often you'll bring them in now, you little brat." He began to swat Peter's legs with the stick, leaving welts and cuts behind. Peter cried out, and his mother exclaimed with him.

She flew at the man, kicking and slapping, but he merely struck Peter once more with the stick, then used it to backhand Peter's mother. She fell to the floor, cupping her cheek, but was unable to contain the blood flowing from the nasty gash in her cheek. The man gazed around, wild-eyed, at the havoc he had caused. He swore violently at both of them and told Peter's mother (among other things) that he was going to go get a drink. He left, and Peter knew that it was going to be at least a week until they saw him again. Something touched his back and Peter flinched, but it was his mother. She had wiped the blood on her dark skirt, and gathered her injured son to her. She cuddled him on her lap, avoiding the welts and cuts on his legs, and assured him that everything was going to be alright. For the first time in his short life, his mother's touch and voice failed to make Peter feel safe.

_Peter: Age 13_

Peter strode through the familiar door and into the living room. He had stayed out later than he should have, well after the sun had fallen, in hopes that his father had already been there and left. If Peter was around when he visited, things tended to become violent very quickly. However, the sight of his mother frantically cleaning met his eyes, and Peter knew that he would have to suffer through another evening of hiding in the back room and pretending he wasn't home. His mother gave him a quick, wan smile, and Peter became concerned. His mother wasn't in the best of health, and the stress of having to keep her husband and her son separated was beginning to wear on her. Peter opened his mouth to ask how she was feeling, but the door was flung open.

Peter's father stomped in. His hair still fell in that familiar tangle, but it was now streaked with gray. He stooped slightly when he wasn't paying attention, but muscles still played along his arms, contrasting sharply with Peter's own slight build. Of course, his father was well able to stay in shape by beating his mother. Peter hated the man, and let the hatred fill his eyes as they glared at each other. He wasn't surprised to see the feeling reflected in the older man's face.

"What is that doing here?" His father snarled. "I told you to always keep it out of my sight. Get rid of it."

Peter let his lip curl in the insolent way his father particularly hated. "Believe me, _father_, I would be only too happy to leave. If you'll move out of my way…" He motioned at the door.

His father crossed his arms. "I've had my doubts about that for a while now, boy. You look nothing like me; you act nothing like me-"

"Thank Heavens for the lack of either of those qualities," Peter quipped, but his father continued to speak over him.

"It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that this little harlot was sleeping around and happened to be cursed with you, you little parasite." Peter's mother gasped and his father got a little glint in his eye that told Peter he was thoroughly enjoying his insults.

Peter's hands involuntarily curled into fists. "Don't talk about my mother that way. Regardless of how pleased I would be to not have a genetic link to your sick, abusive self."

The larger man stepped forward. "What will you do about it, you little illegitimate brat?"

Peter ran at the man, intending to tackle him, but as he ran, it seemed that everything slowed down. He had all the time in the world to see the victory in the man's eyes, all the time he needed to realize that the man had been provoking him, trying to get Peter to attack. He had just begun to wonder why when he saw the flash of the knife that the man had been holding down next to his pants leg. There was no way to stop: his momentum would carry Peter straight into the blade that the man held out in front of him. Suddenly, Peter's mother was there, flying into the man, who cursed her loudly, glared at Peter, and fled out of the door. Peter had a moment to wonder about his sudden departure, and then the world narrowed down to the blade jutting out from between his mother's ribs. Her breathing was already growing labored, and her eyes were beginning to glass over. Peter ran over to her and caught her up, careful not to jostle the knife.

"Mother…" he breathed, hardly willing to break the terrible silence. She did her best to smile up at him, but the pain shone through. She reached up and cupped his cheek. "My beautiful baby boy. I would rather die a thousand times than see you suffer."

Peter started shaking his head and he couldn't stop. The tears began to burn his eyes. "Mother, don't say that. You won't die. We'll take you to the hospital. They can help. Modern medicine-"

His mother shook her head gently. "I'm dying, Peter. There is nothing a hospital can do. Only God may help me now. I love you, Peter. Make me proud." The last was said with far too much effort, and, with a last smoothing motion of her thumb, she let out her final breath. Her hand fell, seeming to curl around the handle of the knife still caught in her rib cage.

Peter sat there, in the house he had lived in since he was a child, and cried over his mother until her body grew cold. Policemen began coming, called by some unknown person, and pried his mother out of his grasp. Having no further connection to the house of his youth, Peter changed his blood-soaked clothes and left, never to return.

_Author's Note:_ That was a pretty depressing first chapter, I know. By the time this is published, I will have a second chapter, which should be less depressing, posted. However, the reader should note that the next few chapters will be setting up the story, and will probably be rather on the long side. As a final detail that probably won't be specifically stated, events take place in the early nineteen hundreds, when the original story was published. Thank you for reading.


	2. Recompense Chapter Two

**Recompense**

* * *

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Peter Pan or any corresponding books, movies, etc.

Peter snarled at the young street urchins who were trying to surround him. He had considerable sympathy with their situation, one he was far too familiar with himself, but these teens were thinking to rob him blind. It had often been necessary to fight his way free of situations such as this, but this time, the sight of Peter seemed to frighten the street kids away. He shrugged to himself in the now-empty street and continued on his way.

After running out of his mother's home, Peter had decided against trying to find another place to live. The streets would be his new home, he had decided, and had made his way quite well in the last seven years. The lack of proper nourishment often stunted the growth of those living off the streets of London, but Peter had continued to grow, and at an accelerated rate. By the time he had turned sixteen, Peter was a full six feet tall, and added another two inches to that in the four years since. The hair topping this tanned body was a coppery brown and was always shaggy between the haircuts given to him by the women who took him in every now and then. Peter always supposed that this hospitality was in some part due to his face, which was narrow, tapering from high cheekbones into a sharply pointed chin. His dark brows sat expressively over his oddly-colored eyes, which shone a predatory amber from behind a perpetual tangle of hair. The hair stopped in order to expose his wide, full-lipped mouth. Yes, women were glad to take him into their houses and give him a few meals, a haircut, new clothes, and a warm bed… at least until their husbands became suspicious. Then Peter was back out on the streets.

Perhaps, at the age of twenty, Peter should have had a better plan for his life than traveling from house to house, but with little schooling and a carefully cultivated ignorance for business in general, he found himself to be well-suited to his life. Peter abruptly cut his path to the left, down a nearby alleyway. He would go and visit his little woman. He smiled, a sardonic twist of lips. Though he bounced from house to house, and woman to woman, Peter always found himself back in a quiet little neighborhood in a well-to-do part of the city. Wendy hadn't been the type of woman who usually approached Peter. She seemed to earnestly want to help him. Peter, unable to believe or trust the offer of food and clothing without strings attached, had continued to come back. Wendy had been a bright young woman, innocent as a spring morning and just as fresh to his cynical soul. Eventually (though it had taken nearly two years), even she had fallen to his charms and they had been together the last time he had seen her. It had been different from all of the other times with the women who 'just wanted to provide for' him. This time had been tender and sweet. Peter had made himself stay away for a little over three weeks, knowing that he needed his distance, but he had to return now. When his soul was this heavy, only Wendy could give him hope again. Hope in himself, hope in the world, and hope in her. Peter shook his head, sending his coppery hair flying in a metallic explosion. Did he love Wendy? He sneered. Surely not; love was a silly emotion for those too weak to see the world in the way it truly was. But still, a small feeling of doubt continued to twitch. He pondered this train of thought until he found himself standing at the servant's entrance to the Darling's house.

Wendy's window was directly above the door. Peter tossed a small pebble, listening for the telltale click that should occur when he had hit the glass. He threw another pebble, which made a slightly louder clack. At first, Peter had been reluctant to do this, frightened he would wake up either of the two elder Darlings, but Wendy's parents were extremely sound sleepers. After a long thirty seconds, Wendy appeared at her window, but didn't open it. She gazed down at Peter with an impossible-to-interpret look on her pretty face. Peter frowned. Wendy always looked exceedingly happy to see him, as a rule. Maybe he had overplayed his hand in waiting so long to come back to her. Wendy turned away from her window. In a few minutes, the lock was drawn back from the door of the servant's quarters. Before Peter could stride inside, the slim eighteen year-old stepped out, gently pulling the door closed behind her.

Peter looked at her questioningly. Wendy appeared tired and drawn. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Wendy glared at him. Peter started back. This wasn't his calm, accepting Wendy. Where was her sweet attitude? Although, this new attitude might make for some very interesting-

"I'm pregnant," Wendy said flatly. Peter gaped. Her eyes dropped to the ground and she seemed to pull away from him, both mentally and physically.

When he could force himself to speak, it came out in a harsh whisper, "What are you going to do?" Wendy flinched violently when she heard the word 'you'. Peter wanted to hold her, but how could he make anything better? He was just a kid on the street, not even the technically legal adult age of twenty-one.

Wendy shrugged and turned to walk back inside. Peter grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to him. He kissed her once, something he had gotten to do only rarely before. She pushed him away after a few seconds. "No, Peter. I can't. I have to get rid of it."

Peter knew this was the logical choice, but his heart seized. She was going to kill their child. They had made a human being, a perfect mixture of the two of them, and she was just going to kill the little baby boy or girl. "Well?" Wendy demanded. She had demanded so few things that he felt obliged to answer her. "I don't want you to kill our baby."

Wendy looked torn, heartbroken. "Oh, Peter, I don't want to! If there was any way at all to let me have him or her, I would, but… My parents. I can't do this to them. They would be so disappointed. And what would we do? Would we get married? Would you get a job, support me, live in a home together?" Now it was Peter's turn to flinch. Wendy looked resigned. "It's all right, I didn't think you would. It would have been lovely to be with you, Peter, but I have to do what's right for me, and my life doesn't have room for a child right now. Are you angry?"

Peter was furious, but it wasn't his choice. His body wouldn't bear the baby, his life wouldn't be disrupted, and he had no parents to disappoint. He kissed Wendy again, softly, then kissed his way down her neck, her nightgown, and nuzzled up against her belly. He kissed the spot where their baby grew - or would have grown, if things could turn out differently than they had. He locked his arms around Wendy's back, resting his head as though he could listen to the little boy or girl they had created. Of course, he heard nothing. And he never would. That realization ripped Peter's heart in the strongest grief he had felt since his mother's death. He allowed his arms to drop from Wendy's body and stood straight.

As coldly as he could, Peter said, "Do whatever you feel is best. I don't think I'll be seeing you again, so best of luck in the rest of your life."

Wendy's face grew red as she attempted to stifle her tears. "Peter, this doesn't have to be goodbye, don't you understand that?" A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn't appear to notice.

Peter let his shoulders slump. "Wendy, I owe you honesty. I truly wish things were different, but nothing's going to change anytime soon. I understand that you need to get rid of the baby to keep your life running smoothly, I truly do. I can't help to support you in any way, so there's no chance of us ever having a life together. Honestly, knowing that you had killed our baby, I couldn't stand to see you again. I'm sorry."

Wendy gasped at the judgment in his speech. Peter looked up at her one last time, and was greeted by a harsh slap on his left cheek. He let it happen, knowing that he deserved that and more, but then she formed her soft, delicate hand into a fist and punched him in the jaw. Before a clear thought could form, Peter's hand was up, ready to backhand this girl across her lovely, sorrowful face. Peter stared at his raised hand in horror. What if he stayed and Wendy had the baby, and he ended up abusing him or her along with Wendy? What if he was nothing more than a copy of his father? Peter let his arm fall, then whipped around and walked away as quickly as he could, until the sound of Wendy's crying faded from his hearing. As soon as he was by himself, Peter dropped to the ground and let himself grieve over Wendy, his child, and the life he would never have.

_Author's Note: _I am seriously sorry. I was going to try to make this chapter light, but it keeps coming out dark and depressing. Now, I want everyone to understand that I'm not trying to start abortion arguments in any way, shape, or form. Please don't be offended. The next chapter will have more of the elements that we've come to expect from Peter Pan stories, and I will try to make it lighter than all of this. Really.


End file.
